


THE TOY

by PRC1857



Category: The Big Valley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PRC1857/pseuds/PRC1857
Summary: Memories are powerful things; when memories are evoked from touch, the wave can be overwhelming.
Kudos: 13





	THE TOY

His work-roughened fingers gently caressed the tiny, fragile wooden toy . . . a small bare-branched tree resting beside a birdhouse, shingles and all, and a tiny bird on a slim, flexible piece of wood, making the bird seem to flutter on its perch. He was careful; the toy was very old, and the California heat had dried it out quite a bit. Pulling too hard on that old, brittle wood could crack and break.

His heart grew full as he remembered the hours and hours he'd put into making this all those years ago, from bits and pieces of old chunks of wood retrieved from the refuse wood pile outside the woodshop of old Mister . . . what was it? . . . Mr. Donaldson, that was it. Fergus Donaldson, an old Scot, one of the very few in town who was kindly toward the poor, fatherless boy.

When he'd been spotted sifting through the pile, the boy had feared he'd be shouted at, or cuffed, or even accused of theft, but the old man had instead studied him a moment, and asked what he wanted the wood for. When he heard the reason, the old man helped him choose pieces that the child could carve with his small knife.

The old man had brought the six-year-old, in his threadbare clothes, into the shop all through that cold winter with the stove burning a cheerful and toasty fire. . . leaving bits of his leftover lunches (far more than the child realized) for the boy to finish up, so 'there'd be nay waste, aye?" . . . teaching him woodworking by simply talking through all he was doing as he performed his tasks. Every day that winter, the old man unlocked the secrets of the different woods for the intelligent little boy: their best uses, their hardnesses, how to recognize them by their grain, how they all looked oiled. How to imagine what you wished to create and sketch it out in three dimensions, imagine all its curves before even picking up your whittling knife or tools. Just giving the child his time . . . and the youngster soaked it up like a tiny sponge, his sharp mind starving for the information, but hungrier still for the kindness and masculine companionship.

The old man had no way of knowing how much warmer the kindness, gentleness and grandfatherly care he offered kept the little boy. Warmer even than the stove, or the quilt he'd insisted the child wrap his pieces in to carry home, with the assurance of "I've got many another, lad. Take that along w'ye now, dinna bother t'bring it back. One less thing for me t'wash, aye? Keep it, as a favor to an old man."

When chest fever took the old man the following spring, the child had cried for hours. Finally, stoically, he locked deep in his tender, sensitive heart all of his memories; determined that he would be as kind to others as old Mr. Ferguson had been to him, no matter what.

His carved piece, once finished, was gifted to the person he'd meant it for with quiet pride.

Now, the gnarled black hand, as roughened with hard work as his own, patted his gently. "Look at that, child," said its owner, tenderly touching the tiny bird, "still works's good as the day you gave that to your mama all them years ago. She was so proud o'you." The rheumy old dark eyes gazed up into his face, hoping he could remember the love and astonished pride his Mama had felt that birthday as she held the piece her little boy had made, just for her.

"She was so surprised you made that, all your own self, such a li'l thing as you were then. Oh, how you were her joy," she said softly, reaching her hand up to his cheek.

He was unable to speak, remembering both the beloved mother he'd wanted to surprise, and the gentle, gifted old man who'd treated him with kindness; he nodded humbly, and offered a shadow of his little lop-sided smile.

\- Fin


End file.
